


cupid on a shooting spree

by petroltogo



Series: Not Our Division [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternative Universe - FBI, Arsonist Castiel, Castiel Is Intrigued, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Has The Best Team Ever, Dean Is Charmed, Different First Meetings, Don't copy to another site, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, Flirting, I Just Borrowed Neal For Dean's Taskforce, I'm Surprised Myself, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Mentions Of Sexual Violence Against Children (Because Dean's Taskforce Specializes In It), Not A Crossover With White Collar, Organized Crime, Playing with tropes, Slow Burn What Slow Burn, Three Guesses Who The Archangels Are And The First Two Don't Count, almost no angst, both are clueless, for a bit, sort of crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21534151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: FBI legend Dean Winchester's got it all: supportive friends, snarky colleagues, a boss who has his back and a job he's too good at to get fired. The one thing that would make his life even better would be for things to work out between him and Cas, a hot guy with ridiculous taste in movies that Dean may or may not be falling in love with.[Actually, the one thing that would make Dean's life a hell of a lot easier would be for Cas to not be Castiel Novak — the infamousArchangels’ alleged arson specialist. But that's a story for another time.]
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Meg Masters & Dean Winchester, Neal Caffrey & Dean Winchester
Series: Not Our Division [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551958
Comments: 31
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

Dean doesn’t mean to notice the guy. He really, really doesn’t.

It’s not that the man isn’t handsome. He’s got dark, windswept hair and bright eyes that are either green or blue — hard to make out the correct shade in the flashing lights — and a very pretty face, from what Dean can see. Not as pretty as Dean’s own, but a very nice second runner-up. And anyways, it’s not like Dean’s _that_ picky when it comes to his one-night-stands.

He _isn’t_.

[ _Shut up, Meg, nobody asked you_.]

The thing is, Dean’s not a club person. He hates the dim lights, hates how hot and heavy the air is, hates the sensation of sweaty bodies pressing against his own. The feeling of unfamiliar hands touching him. Not being able to see a threat coming until it’s too late. And yeah, that includes guns and knifes and other fun stuff. But it also goes for thrown beer bottles and wasted partygoers throwing up over his favorite shoes.

The only reason why Dean Winchester occasionally visits a club out of his own free will is because of the music. Not just any music either because when it comes to his rare night out, Dean’s _definitely_ picky.

[Meg can make fun of him all she likes, she’s got terrible taste anyways. Although Dean’s eighty-seven per cent sure she just keeps on humming the Barbie Girl song to piss him off. Joke’s on her though. Thanks to Neal, Dean has to endure classical music on a regular basis. He’s grateful for any tune with an actual song text — and nope, operas don’t count, _what the fuck, Caffrey_ — no matter how cringe-worthy the lyrics are.

It’s actually Lisa who hates that song the most. She once spend two hours lecturing Meg on the societal evil that is the barbie doll and the patriarchal, misogynistic power structures she reproduces. Unsurprising, this led to Meg preparing an inspiring defense speech for their next quarterly budget review meeting — Barbie’s YouTube videos on mental health issues included — and long story short, Dean’s desk is now home to Barbie, Ken, Kelly and a Barbie-edition of the _Frozen_ sisters, curtesy of Meg’s Secret Santa gifts. Lisa offered to mutilate them, but Dean’s pretty sure her plans would give all of them nightmares. Not to mention give their colleagues the wrong impression. They’re supposed to hunt psychopaths, not become them, and playing voodoo with a children’s doll seems like like it might be taken the wrong way.

Half the bureau is already convinced their division is criminally insane. And most of them don’t get to sit in on those late-night emergency meetings, where the deadly combination of Neal, Meg, Dean and life-threatening amounts of caffeine comes up with their best ideas.]

When it comes to clubs — or rather to dancing — Dean has very clear preferences. It doesn’t matter what type of music it is, so long as it’s loud. Loud enough to almost turn Dean deaf. Oh, and bass-heavy. Can’t forget about that. Dean needs to feel it, every note vibrating through his bones. Needs to feel the beat rippling over his skin until it’s flushed and tingling. Until he can’t hear the sound of his own ragged breathing anymore, can barely see anything in the colorful flashes of light. Until the world — too bright, too full, too terrible — has shrunken down to nothing but the music ravaging through his very core and the pounding of his heart, running wild in his chest.

Letting go like that, so completely and absolutely, is one of the biggest highs Dean knows. Better than catching a monster in human skin — because there’s always a bitterness attached to that, the face of the victims you couldn’t save, the underlying fear of being too late yet again, the terrible realization in the survivors eyes that it’s over but now they have to live with it — that taints that joy.

Better than sex even, though Dean wouldn’t admit that out loud. He’s got a fairly good idea what Meg would say to a statement like that and there’s a limit of how many ' _Then you’re not doing it right_ ' jokes Dean’s willing to endure in a week. Doesn’t change the way he feels though.

The problem with sex is that it involves another person. And don’t get him wrong, Dean likes sex well enough and he likes people even more. But his job makes a steady relationship difficult and with one-night-stands there’s always that uncertainty, the unfamiliarity of your partner. It’s fun, sometimes it’s even _fantastic_ , but Dean can’t let himself go. Not completely. Not the way he does when he dances.

[They don’t train the trust out of you at Quantico. The files of yet another missing child, yet another case gone cold, yet another serial rapist that smiles way too kindly do that all on their own.

Not that Dean’s been good with _trust_ even before that, but that’s a different story.]

That’s probably one of the reasons why Dean rarely indulges. Letting go like that, going _away_ even though he’s fully conscious, is scary when he allows himself to think about it. And that’s without considering how many people he’s arrested in clubs similar to this one. How many bodies he’s pulled out of the backrooms.

With a scowl, Dean pushes that thought down. This is the problem with his job: You can’t just leave it at the door when you leave the bureau at 5pm sharp. Okay, 4am sharp, if you want to be precise. Needless to say, their last case was _hell_.

Bad enough that Jody gave them the rest of the week off to recuperate and get their heads straightened out. So Dean staggered home like a good little agent, passed out in his bed for twelve hours straight, wolfed down two portions of Mac’n’Cheese and caught up on the new Dr. Sexy episodes he’d missed. None of which managed to settle the itch under his skin. The restlessness. Emily Sanders lifeless body, eyes wide open and face frozen in an expression of horrified terror, even in death.

[ _At least they found the body this time_ , the cynical voice in the back of Dean’s head murmurs. _At least her parents have that closure_. Which is true, but it’s a cold, analytical truth that doesn’t actually make it better. And it’s not the worst case Dean has worked, not by a long shot. But burying a fourteen-year-old girl is the kind of thing that doesn’t get any easier to bear with repetition.]

Hence the downtime. And the dancing. It’s that or a psychologist and while the bureau would cover the cost, even recommends trustworthy specialists, Dean really doesn’t plan on opening that can of worms until he can no longer avoid it. Psychological clearances are a bitch to get in their line of work — staying sane takes a lot of fucking effort — and the regular check-ups are already messy enough.

Besides Tessa would just tell him to get his ass off the ratty couch and go dancing. She knows Dean too damn well.

["It’s better than some of the coping mechanisms I’ve seen over the years," she’s told him with a shrug during that first year when they’d still been feeling each other out, trying to settle into a dynamic that worked for the both of them.

And Dean isn’t an idiot and he isn’t blind. He knows Benny drank himself into a coma after that fiasco in Denver. He knows Meg goes through ammunition on the shooting range like crazy when a case hits too close home. He knows Ash pulls three all-nighters working on his digital farm in _Stardew Valley_ because shooter games and battles are too close to reality to him. He knows Neal paints copies of famous paintings when he’s stressed and that he gives most of them to someone on their team after he’s done. Dean’s never asked him what happens with the other ones.

 _Not our division_.

Point is, they’re all a little fucked and they all have their own way of dealing with the shit show that is their day job. Comes with the territory.]

So, one day into his mini-vacation, Dean had given in and asked Charlie for a recommendation. He doesn’t make a habit of coming to the same clubs regularly. The predictability of it makes him itchy. Plus, Charlie’s fantastic taste isn’t limited to women. She knows exactly what Dean’s looking for when he wants to let loose and makes it happen.

[Dean would totally hire her as his PA if he was important enough to require a PA. And if Charlie didn’t enjoy dancing back and forth on the line of legality too much to settle down and work for the FBI.]

Because Charlie is awesome and Dean’s best friend, she’s also warned him that the clientele of _B5_ leans more towards to opposite site of the law. Apparently the owner is friends with someone high-up in the local criminal food chain and the the club is considered neutral ground by the two street gangs with the most say in this area. It also has a strict no-drugs policy and zero tolerance for troublemakers.

[From what Charlie has implied, Dean suspects B5 is as squeaky clean as Charlie swears it is because it’s a cover for some other, much less legal business. He hasn’t asked though. Charlie wouldn’t have recommended anything with even a hint of sex trafficking ties, and everything else really isn’t Dean’s problem. He’s off the fucking clock.]

 _B5_ also has a DJ who favors techno a bit too much if you ask Dean, but all in all it delivers everything Charlie promised. The music is turned up loud enough to make conversations impossible, Dean hasn’t noticed a single drug deal before he’s shut his brain off and the room is crowded enough to get lost in the masses, but not so full Dean feels like he can’t fucking breathe.

[Panic attacks in public are no fun. Panic attacks when surrounded by drunk strangers even less so.]

Getting lost is good, easy even. Dean can literally feel the tension seeping out of him and though he knows he probably looks ridiculous, he doesn’t allow for that thought to linger long enough to sour his mood. This is for him and him alone.

Dean doesn’t know how long he’s on the dance floor, lost to the world around him, completely in the zone. It’s a bit like working on a case. That single-minded focus that doesn’t allow for hunger or exhaustion to be more than a footnote in Dean’s mind, but it’s also not because like this, Dean isn’t required to think. He’s blind and deaf to the world and yet he’s a part of it, right in the middle of a crowd and he belongs here, with these strangers, in a way he doesn’t — can’t — once he puts on a suit and flashes his badge.

It’s _freedom_ and _running away_ at once, entwined so tightly, it’s impossible to tell the two apart.

Then the DJ switches from that techno shit to something closer to soft rock and even though the music is much more up Dean’s alley, the shift is jarring enough to break his haze. Dean blinks a couple of times, his body slowing down and comes to a halt, not quite ready to fall into the new rhythm just yet. With the way his mind becomes more aware by the second, Dean is acutely aware of his sweat-drenched clothes sticking uncomfortably to his body. Of the welcome ache in his muscles, the way he struggles to catch his breath.

He rolls back his shoulders, stretches his back a bit. It’s a good feeling. A soothing burn. As tempting as it is to fall back into the song though, Dean should probably get something to drink first. Dehydration is no fun and his body is practically screaming at him. Loudly.

With a sigh, Dean pushes his way through the crowd towards the bar. The only part of the room that’s clearly illuminated in cold, blue LED-light. The drama aficionado in Dean definitely appreciates the style, although he personally would've gone for more green. Or violet maybe. Less lightsaber, more devil’s lair.

He’s almost at the bar when Dean catches sight of _him_ for the first time. The guy is leaning against the bar with his back, elbows propped up on the black wood, facing the dance floor. He’s not watching Dean in particular — Dean’s not _that_ egocentric, okay — but their eyes definitely meet for a moment.And, well, Dean means it when he says he doesn’t mean to notice the guy. He’s not here for that type of distraction tonight. Dean usually isn’t in the mood for sex after a bad case. _Go figure_.

But the bartender is hopelessly overwhelmed — Dean’s never seen anyone mess up a Caipirinha three times in a row, come on, it’s not rocket science — meaning that Dean’s got nothing but time, bobbing back and forth on his feet, waiting his turn. And the guy’s literally _right_ _there_. And still looking at Dean. Staring, actually. Looking sounds way too subtle for what the guy’s doing.

He’s gorgeous, that much Dean can tell even in the bad lighting. Around Dean’s height, angular face, wearing a tight, white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a smirk on his lips that screams the sort of self-assured confidence Dean considers his number three major weakness. Right after a good burger and crying children. Yeah, there’s no way around it: The guy’s definitely Dean’s type.

And because the bartender is still fumbling his way through a Sex on the Beach that isn’t supposed to contain rum, and the part of Dean that makes good, reasonable decisions is pretty much saved exclusively for work-related choices, Dean sends an equally confident smirk over his shoulder, complete with an inviting wink.

Hey, just because he doesn’t intend to get laid doesn’t mean he’s not going to flirt. There’s no mode of Dean Winchester that _doesn’t_ flirt.

While Dean is distracted by an internal argument with his inner Lisa over whether or not he can differentiate between appropriate and inappropriate situations for his special brand of charm — Lisa doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Neal would one hundred percent agree with Dean on this —the pretty stranger slides up next to him. He moves into Dean’s line of sight before he leans in close enough that Dean can feel his warm breath against his ear and he doesn’t presume and actually _touch_ Dean. Both are two strong points in the guy’s favor.

"Want something to drink?" the guy yells over the music. His voice is surprisingly deep, and okay, that’s point number three. Damn it.

Dean hesitates for a moment. Shrugs inwardly. It’s a drink, he won’t owe the guy anything. And besides it might be nice to spend time with someone who isn't a work friend or an ex-work friend.

He moves back a little, lets his shoulder brush against the guy’s own as he leans over and yells, "Just a water," over the noise.

Pretty Guy raises his eyebrows.

Dean shrugs, utterly unapologetic. He’s not getting black-out drunk in a club where he doesn’t know anyone and has no back-up close by. And if he starts drinking right now, black-out drunk is the only way this night — or early morning — is going to end. Dean’s got no illusions about that.

To Pretty Guy’s credit, he accepts Dean’s non-answer without protest. Simply turns around and waves the bartender over. The poor guy knocks over a glass in his eagerness to respond — Dean’s kinda insulted he hasn’t gathered the same reaction, but he feels bad for the clearly over-worked guy, so he’s not gonna be an ass about it — and a moment later Pretty Guy hands Dean two water bottles.

Definitely earning point number four in the process. Dean decides to worry about that later though. He’s too drowning the first bottle without so much as taking a breath in between swallowing. Fuck, he hasn’t realized how thirsty he is.

It’s only after Dean drops the empty bottle down on the bar that he remembers his manners and accepts the second one Pretty Guy hands him with a sheepish smile and a very heartfelt "Thanks". He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pretty sure that he’s spilled more water than can be considered attractive. Not that his shirt isn’t already drenched with sweat, so that’s probably a lost cause.

"I’m Dean," he yells because he’s starting to feel almost human now and should probably act like it.

Pretty Guy grins, looking honest to God delighted and copies Dean’s motion. Rests one hand on Dean’s shoulder, to keep his balance maybe. Shouts what is either a Cassidy, Castel or possibly Casper. Not that Dean’s distracted by the warmth of the guy’s hand that he can feel through the thin fabric of his shirt or anything. Nope. Not at all.

Deciding to take the easy way out, Dean leans closer into the guy’s personal space so he doesn’t have to shout and says, "Very nice to meet you, Cas."

"It’s very nice to meet you too, Dean," Cas drawls back, his throaty voice curling around Dean like a tantalizing cloud of smoke and yeah, okay, this may not be what Dean was looking for, but there’s no harm in opening yourself up to new opportunities.

[It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Cas looks even better from up close than he did from a distance.]

"Wanna dance?" Dean asks because Cas is looking at him with burning eyes and Dean likes what he sees but he hasn’t prepared for this and— he’s not sure he’s ready to face the implications of the tension building between them just yet.

["Don’t be a coward, Dean." Meg snorts in the back of his mind. "You could do with a little harmless fun, stop overthinking this."

"Oh, shut up!" Lisa growls back. "He doesn’t need to have sex if he doesn’t want to and he definitely doesn’t need to feel pressured by you or Blue-Eyes over there."

"Those are some pretty blue eyes though."

"Fuck you, Meg."

"Nah, you’re too high-strung to be my type."

Sometimes, Dean wishes his subconsciousness wouldn’t do such a great job at impersonating his friends.]

Cas’ grin turns rueful. "I can’t dance."

It’s such a stereotypical response that Dean can’t help but roll his eyes. "Sure you can’t," he mutters, though the comment is probably lost in the noise around them.

"Come on," he yells louder, grabs Cas’ hand and pulls him towards the crowd. "I’ll teach you."

Dean’s not so far gone yet that he can’t read the hesitation on Cas’ face. But before he can decide whether he’s pulled a Meg and gone too far, crossed whatever line there is to cross between spontaneous club acquaintances, Cas’ is smiling again, an edge that slides right into teasing to it. "Your funeral."

The thought that Emily will have a closed casket burial hovers dangerously close to the surface for a moment and so maybe when Dean throws his head back as he laughs, it’s half because of genuine amusement and half to escape that burning gaze for a second.

"You wish."

*

As it turns out, Cas hasn’t exaggerated. He _really_ can’t dance. Under different circumstances, Dean might have been annoyed by that. It’s not Cas’ fault, he realizes that, but Dean doesn’t get the chance to let loose like this very often. [Doesn’t allow himself the chance to let loose like this very often.]

And dancing with a partner who doesn’t know a thing about how to move and has the rhythm of a drunk mermaid caught out of water is trickier than it sounds. Certainly makes falling into the zone impossible. If only because every time Dean’s about to sink back into the music, Cas steps on his foot or digs an elbow into his side or almost makes him lose his balance.

Dean would suspect Cas of messing up on purpose, but there’s just no way _any_ of the guy’s awkward motions are on purpose.

And maybe that water was spiked after all because Dean should be pissed and ditch Cas — or at least get him off the dance floor before he hurts anyone besides Dean and himself — but he just can’t stop laughing.

"I’m glad you find my inability to dance amusing," Cas shouts at one point and somehow gets his dry, unamused tone across perfectly, despite the volume needed for Dean to even hear him. But it’s the annoyance visible in the downward tilt of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes that tells Dean he either has to blow the guy off and continue with his night as planned or give him a real shot and cut his dancing short.

It’s not as hard a decision as Dean expected it to be. Clearly, he’s spent too much time with Meg.

"Sorry! It’s just— you’re a terrible dancer." Dean smiles winningly, two thirds of an apology.

Cas’ raises his eyebrows at him. "As advertised."

Which, fair enough.

"Touché." Dean slides his arms around Cas’ waist and leans in, not for a kiss but enjoying the feel of the other man’s body against his own. "How about I buy you a drink in the bar across the street to make it up to you?"

Cas turns his head, soft lips brushing against Dean’s cheek. The gentle touch leaves a fiery trail in its wake that doesn’t send shudders down Dean’s back at all.

"Lead the way."

*

 _Tommy’s_ is a tiny, local-friendly place that’s closer to a pub than a bar. A fact that Dean appreciates. The homey atmosphere helps him relax, calm his racing heart a little. On the other hand, although the lights are dim and there’s soft music playing in the background, Dean can see Cas clearly now — the way his shirt clings to his broad shoulders, the quiet confidence in his movements, the blue of his eyes that feel like they cut right through Dean’s usual bullshit — and truly appreciate the hot-ness of his maybe-date. And his voice.

 _Fuck_. He’s still half-deaf from the club music, but that warm, deep voice gives Dean all kinds of feelings that he doesn’t know what to do with.

They take a corner seat — the place is only half-full — and Dean swallows down his instincts and lets Cas take the seat with his back to the wall. Not that the man will appreciate the gesture for what it really is, but really, it’s as much a concession to Cas as it’s a reminder for Dean: This isn’t a job. He’s off the clock. There’s no need to vigilant twenty-four-seven and while there’s also no reason to be stupid, the day Dean finds himself unable to turn his back on a room full of peacefully beer-drinking pub regulars is the day his work will have officially ruined him for good.

[He’s afraid that day looms closer than he likes to admit. But it’s not here yet, so Dean pushes that thought back together with all the other crap and focuses on the blue in Cas’ eyes instead.]

Their order — whiskey for Cas, a beer for Dean — arrives within moments, thanks to their waiter who nods at Cas in greeting before he moves on.

"Old friend?" Dean asks, mostly because he can’t think of anything to say.

"More acquaintance than friend." Cas raises his glass in a wordless toast and takes a sip. He leans back, looking for all intents and purposes completely at home, and Dean kinda envies him for that calm. He doesn’t usually struggle to fit in, but that’s his job and it’s different. Right now, Dean isn’t on a race against time to find a missing kid, isn’t trying to trick a suspect into revealing his true nature. He’s not Dean Winchester, he’s just Dean. Just himself. And the way Cas is watching him, all intent and burning fire, makes him nervous.

He takes a sip of his beer. It really has been too long since Dean’s done something like this. Least of all with someone as intense as Cas.

"So you can’t dance," he finally says. Clears his throat because the words come out less humorous than he’s intended. "What can you do?"

Luckily, Cas seems amused rather than offended.

"Oh, all kinds of things that would blow your mind." He winks, but his smile is razor sharp and Dean probably shouldn’t find that so hot.

"Yeah?" Thank fuck Dean manages to insert some of his patented cockiness into his tone instead of doing something cringe-worthy like starting to stutter. "'Cause I should warn you, I’m pretty hard to impress."

"I figured." Cas sets his glass down with a soft click, smirk widening. "That’s what makes it fun."

*

It should probably be awkward — they’re complete strangers who’ve exchanged about twenty words so far, awkward is unavoidable — and it _is_ , but it also _isn’t_. Dean makes a joke about Cas’ dancing abilities, which backfires when Cas looks at him with a smolder that isn’t supposed to exist outside Disney movies and tells Dean in a voice dripping with sex than he can _demonstrate his moves anytime, anywhere_. The comment comes so unexpected and heavy with innuendo that Dean chokes on his beer like he’s freaking fifteen and has his first crush.

Thankfully, Cas just grins in accomplishment and they spend the next few minutes arguing over the advantages of beer over whiskey, which helps Dean regain some of his footing. Of course then Cas looks at Dean from under his eyelashes and murmurs " _You could always show me the error of my way_ ," and they’re talking about drinks, for fuck’s sake, how does Cas manage to make it sound like the intro to a cheap porno?

That silly thought turns into a very serious discussion on their favorite movies. Cas thinks _The Untouchables_ is an overly romanticized pile of crap because everyone’s corruptible, which leads Dean to recount everything he’s ever learned from Meg’s rants about the development of group dynamics and how under those specific circumstances and with such a tightly-knitted group it’s entirely possible that their determination to take Capone down was stronger than the temptation of money.

That leads them to _The Godfather_ , another freaking classic that Cas clearly hasn’t learned to appreciate. Although this time it’s the criminal lifestyle he considers both, portrayed too romantic and too tragic at the same time.

"Sofia’s death is the most pointless death in the history of cinematic climaxes and an utter letdown besides," are his exact words. Along with an, "And what kind of self-respecting gun for hire would shoot an eighteen-year-old girl instead of the head of a crime syndicate?" that has Dean laughing despite himself. Maybe it’s not that funny and maybe there are three way to counter that statement Dean can think of at the top of his mind, but that’s not really the point. The point is, Dean enjoys this. Sitting here, sipping his beer, arguing with Cas about movies. He feels alive and light in a way he hasn’t in a long time — never does in the bureau because he loves his team, he does, they’re awesome, but every second of levity between them is something they have to fight for tooth and claws — and until this very moment, Dean hasn’t realized how much he’s _missed_ it.

When he calms down, it’s to find Cas staring at him — again — unblinking and intense. "Your laugh is beautiful," he says, completely unashamed and sincere, like that’s the kind of thing you can just say to a guy. Like it doesn’t knock the air out of Dean’s lungs and leaves him scrambling, cheeks flushing, fingers restlessly tracing the condensed water drops on his half-empty beer bottle.

And maybe Dean should’ve shrugged it off or turned it into a joke or flirted right back, but somehow when he opens his mouth and looks into Cas’ dark blue eyes, all those light-hearted words crumble to dust and what comes out instead is an awkward, "Alright, what about _Frozen_?"

There’s a gleam in Cas’ eyes that has Dean shifting in his seat, not uncomfortable exactly but not comfortable either. Then Cas drops the intense stare-off and launches himself into a rant on everything wrong with a children’s movie that has one total asshole romance interest, a suicidal snowman that doesn’t even realize he’s suicidal, and a completely overblown sacrifice play between two sisters that could’ve been avoided completely if only they’d communicated properly, and Dean is more grateful for the brief reprise than Cas probably realizes.

That doesn’t stop him from defending one of the few Disney movies where the main character sacrifices himself for _family_ instead of the aforementioned asshole romance interest though. It’s the principle of the thing.

"Is there any movie you even like?" Dean finally asks, somewhere between sarcasm and genuine curiosity.

"I like many movies." Cas smirks devilishly. "I just like arguing with you more. You get all determined and huffy, it’s adorable."

Dean— gapes.

He’s not proud of it, but there’s no denying the fact. It takes him a couple of precious seconds to work through that twist and throw himself back into his chair with a huff, arms crossed in front of his chest and narrow eyes glowering at a completely unapologetic Cas.

"You’re an asshole." It’s not great as far as retorts go, but it’s all Dean’s got right now. He doesn’t understand how Cas is able to get under his skin so easily, how he keeps flustering him when Dean’s usually pretty good of going with the flow of the conversation. But somehow Cas’ weird combination of genuine intensity just keeps tripping him up.

"I know." He’s also way too self-satisfied.

Dean does the only thing he really can at this point: He pouts. It’s a cheap shot he usually doesn’t pull before the third date — because it’s juvenile and Dean’s better than that, except he apparently isn’t — but to his satisfaction it works just fine. Cas’ gaze is drawn to his lips and there’s no missing the way his eyes darken.

"How about we settle the bill and then _I_ make it up to _you_?" Cas asks slowly, the words heavy with intend.

That’s point number five in his favor. Because the thing is, Cas really _asks_. There’s no pressure, no assumption that would’ve undoubtedly ended with Dean running into the opposite direction, just a question that Dean doesn’t for a moment think he couldn’t answer with an honest _No_ and have Cas nod and walk away, no harm done.

Dean swallows. His palms feel clammy and Cas’ gaze makes him feel uncharacteristically skittish, but not necessarily in a bad way. He’s attracted to Cas, there’s no denying that, but he also likes him and that’s more than Dean’s felt for anyone in ages.

[ _Don’t overthink this_.]

"Sounds good to me." And then because Dean is still Dean, no matter what, he allows his genuine smile to twist into a smirk that’s all _I dare you_ and only half false bravado. "Should warn you that I’ve got high expectations though."

"Good." Cas matches him smirk for smirk. "I do well with a challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly busy RL-wise and still working on the next chapter of how way leads on to way, so naturally my muse knocked me over the head with this new 'verse.
> 
> Anyone interested in seeing more of this?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: Dean doesn’t plan on seeing Cas again. Spoiler: He does it anyway.

Full disclosure: Dean doesn’t plan on seeing Cas again.

Which sounds worse than it is. It’s not like Dean is particularly fond of one-night-stands. It’s just that that’s usually all his brief acquaintances turn out to be. And even the ones who hang around for a few weeks don’t make it past the two month mark as a general rule.

[Charlie has the statistics to back that claim up, in case anyone’s wondering. Which Dean wasn’t, until she pulled out the charts — freaking _color-coded_ charts — on his twenty-seventh birthday.]

Not his fault that most people don’t appreciate his awesomeness. Or his inability to sleep through the night for more than four consecutive days. Or his refusal to talk about his all-day, often overtime, emotionally exhausting job, for that matter.

Although it doesn’t help that he picks up most of his sexual encounters in clubs and bars — the kind where people are looking for fun, distraction and a good time, not a steady relationship with a fucked-up workaholic who suffers from constant emotional constipation, as diagnosed by Meg and Lisa. That’s actually one of three topics on which those two can agree on. The other two being appropriate pizza toppings and that one case with the flower pearls, where their suspect _violently resisted arrest, cross my heart and hope he dies_.

But well, what’s Dean supposed to do? If you eliminate his colleagues at the FBI and his former coworkers — which Dean and said coworkers like to pretend his current employers don’t know anything about, a pretense everyone is more than happy with — his social interactions are limited to the barista at his favorite coffee shop — who is at least six years too young for him — and the old gentleman who lives across the floor from Dean’s shitty apartment and knows more about every tenant in the building than Dean could uncover in five months of undercover work.

[He’s seventy-six percent certain the guy is former foreign intelligence. It’s that or a retired world-class assassin. He calls himself _Chuck_ , for God’s sake. If that kind of common, everyday Joe name isn’t suspicious, Dean doesn’t know what is.

Very reliable man though. Hasn’t forgotten to water Dean’s plants even once — not that Dean remembers giving the man a key or asking him to water said plants in the first place. Actually, he’s not entirely sure how he’s acquired those plants. But it’s a nice gesture and Dean’s never woken up with less organs than he fell asleep with. He takes that for the win it so obviously is.]

The point is, Dean doesn’t plan on seeing Cas again. Neither does he plan on not seeing him again.

Cas is funny and hot and offers Dean to stay the night, but doesn’t get all pouty or insulted when Dean refuses. [He really doesn’t sleep well in a strange place and Cas’ place meets the 'strange' part in every sense of the word.] Just nods, pulls on a pair of ugly, yellow sweatpants and calls him a cab.

It’s that calm self-confidence that draws Dean in and the casual display of kindness that makes him slip Cas’ his number.

Besides the sex was great, so there’s that.

He doesn’t expect a call, but it’s nice to take a leap of faith sometimes. So it’s probably a good thing that Cas doesn’t call or Dean would’ve made a complete fool of himself. Cas texts him instead, just ten minutes after Dean’s left his apartment — and it should be noted that Dean does indeed make a fool of himself, but the driver pays him no mind so it’s fine — and asks Dean to let him know when he’s made it home safely.

Dean does, though he feels silly the moment he hits the send button. It helps that Cas’ response consists of a series of ridiculous emojis that make no sense at all. Not much, but it helps. Dean falls asleep pondering whether that long line of smiley faces, frog emojis and 100-signs requires a response from him or not.

In the morning, Dean sends a coffee cup emoji back because that’s really the only thing he can think of before Becky hands him his first dose of caffeine. Cas doesn’t answer, but it’s six thirty on a Saturday morning, so even Dean at his most self-conscious has difficulty convincing himself that the guy is already annoyed and purposefully ignoring him. He’s probably asleep, like the sane three quarters of the city.

It’s too bad that Dean’s never gotten his card to that particular club.

Usually, Jody lets them recuperate until Monday after a bad case, even if it adds a few more days of payed vacation to the department bill. They’ve got more than enough overtime to make up for as it is. That she’s called them in the second her post-bad-case grace period is over tells Dean that she’s already got a case for them. An urgent one.

So Dean downs his first cup, takes the second one Becky hands him with a commiserating glance and heads to the office building. It’s a twenty minute subway trip that gives Dean plenty of time to stare at his screen, waiting for it to light up. And playing CandyCrush once he realizes how pathetic he’s acting over some guy he barely knows and who has terrible taste in movies besides.

With a sigh and one last check for a response from Cas he wouldn’t admit to under torture — there isn’t one —, Dean switches his personal phone off. It’s not a requirement, technically, but when Jody — Mills, back then — offered him a department-issued phone, Dean took it without hesitation. He’s made an effort to keep his work life as separate from his personal life as possible and he’s not messing with a well-working system now. Especially not when he needs to get his head in the game.

*

The case turns out worse than expected. Benny actually punches a wall hard enough to fracture one of his knuckles. And that’s _before_ they find the fourth body.

Dean doesn’t say much. He’s got good instincts and on his team only Neal is better at conning people into giving him what he wants, but Dean’s true gift is talking to children. Kids they’ve rescued, siblings of missing children, eye-witnesses, survivors, it doesn’t matter. His gender works against him sometimes, unfortunately, but Dean’s good at it. Building a connection with them. Listening to them and understanding what they try to say. Kids are easy in a way grown-ups aren’t. Which is why Dean usually leaves those to Jody, Meg or Neal.

There’s no kids on this case though. None that are alive, at least, and Dean is a man of many talents, but making dead bodies talk isn’t one of them.

It’s Meg and Neal, who come up with a new theory — helped along by some unmentioned input from outside the law, probably, not that Dean’s gonna _ask_ — while Benny’s checking himself in at the hospital. They still don’t make it in time to save little Louis _or_ arrest the culprit who fled in a panic, crashed his car and died before the ambulance arrived.

Knowing that the asshole’s dead doesn’t help. Maybe it will. In a few months. When Dean looks back on all this. Maybe the thought that the Warrens will never hurt anyone again will bring a grim, pleasureless smile to his face because _at least it ends here_.

[Not all their cases come with a final act and that truth weighs heavier than all the nightmarish shit they’ve got to put up with on a daily basis ever does.]

Right now, the sense of failure is too fresh, too all-encompassing. Meg’s swearing, Neal’s put on his headphones and turned the music up way too loud and Dean doesn’t say anything. He listens to Lisa’s chocked voice on the other end of the line, struggling to regain composure and _fuck_ , he should comfort her, shouldn’t he, her son is four months younger than Louis, _fucking hell_ — and he doesn’t say anything at all.

*

It feels like an eternity even though it’s only been four days — and why were they called in so late anyways, except no, that’s not fair or helpful, shifting blame around doesn’t help anyone — when Dean steps back into his apartment.

He’s ordered himself a small pizza margarita — nothing complicated, stomaching it will be a struggle as it is — that gets put onto the counter and promptly forgotten about. Instead Dean heads straight for the shower. It helps, a little. And after four days, he really needs one.

By the time Dean steps out of the steaming hot water, skin flushed and eyes dry, he still feels like shit but at least he doesn’t smell like it too. He stumbles into a sweatshirt he’s worn so often, the fabric has become completely washed out and soft, and a pair of sweatpants and fuzzy socks Lisa got him for his last birthday for days like this.

Then Dean face-plants on his second-hand couch and spends an extraordinary time staring blankly at the beige fabric, questioning his life choices. He might have passed out a time or two, it’s hard to tell when his head’s fucked like this.

At some point, Dean switches on his personal phone. It’s an old habit. One Charlie and Jo beat into him back in his early fed days, when the jobs fucked him up bad enough he forgot to eat, to sleep, to fucking function at all. As expected, there’s a couple of texts from Charlie, demanding he get his pretty butt on a chair and eat the damn pizza — probably been checking his credit cards again, such is the woe of being BFFs with a brilliant hacker — or else.

Jo, as always focused on the important things, has sent him pictures of two dresses and demands to know which one would be better suited for a visit to the National Gallery in London.

[The dark blue one, obviously, because Dean doesn’t for even a second buy that said 'visit' won’t include a hell lot of running and dodging security personal. He takes half a second to consider the ethical conundrum of advising a thief when you’re law enforcement, but Britain is so far outside his jurisdiction, it’s not even funny. And besides art theft really isn’t his division, so whatever. Let some poor sod across the pond worry about this particular blonde mess.]

With an eye-roll and the comforting, familiar snark only a group chat with his oldest friends can provide, Dean manages to get himself off the couch and finally wolf-down this forgotten and by now cold pizza. Then he ends up right back on that couch and watches Dr. Sexy. There’s something inevitably soothing about watching the completely ludicrous, overdone drama of the hospital soap opera.

Also, Charlie and Dean are categorically incapable of agreeing on who should end up with whom, which is like half the fun. Jo mostly just sends memes and knife emojis, but it’s Jo. She’s probably scaling a skyscraper right this very second. [She’s also refused to watch another episode since her infamous season four finale meltdown. Considering how badly the writers fucked that one up, Dean can forgive her that.]

Dean falls asleep in the middle of an argument with Charlie about whether the new assistant and nurse from the third floor would make a good couple — which does _not_ mean that he forfeits the argument, no matter what Charlie will later insist. When Dean wakes up the next morning, it’s two pm, his mouth feels like something died in it and he’s got over sixty unread messages on his phone.

Most of them are from his group chat with Charlie and Jo, but there’s some from his colleagues as well. Benny’s sent him an update — apparently, he really messed up his hand and is gonna be stuck with a cast and desk duty for the foreseeable future — and Lisa asks how he’s doing. Neal hasn’t texted, but Neal never texts Dean. Not unless he’s in trouble or needs a favor. Which usually amounts to the same thing. Meg hasn’t either, but she’ll probably sent him a picture from her time at the shooting range sometime in the next two hours or so. It’s her way of telling him she’s fine and demanding he better be as well.

There’s also four messages from Cas.

Embarrassingly, it takes Dean a full two minutes — and re-reading their previous conversation — to remember who Cas is. In his defense, the past week was eventful. In all the worst ways.

Cas’ messages are all from the same day Dean switched the phone off. The first two are random strings of emojis. Dean’s willing to bet not even a crypto-analyst would be able to decipher a deeper meaning from them. The other two are much more promising.

_If you like coffee so much, I’d be happy to buy you one_

There’s even a winky face at the end, Jesus. And another one, two hours later: _Too soon?_

Wonderful. Now Dean feels like crap for keeping his phone off all this time. He usually checks it regularly even when he’s on a trip, but this time he didn’t have the time or the energy. Everything happened too freaking fast and they were still too damn slow.

_shit sorry was gone for work all week_

Dean hits 'Send' before he can overthink it. Then adds, _would love that coffee if the offer still stands?_ because what the hell. If Cas has already written him off and Dean’s making a fool of himself, he might as well go all in.

That doesn’t stop him from re-reading the messages obsessively for the next two hours in between throwing a meal together, catching up with Charlie, checking in with Benny and taking a closer look at Meg’s shooting skills. She’s good, always has been, but she’s definitely still pissed about their last case. Meg always goes for headshots when she’s pissed and her accuracy suffers as well. Not enough to matter, but enough to be noticeable.

Dean would check in with her, but Meg might shoot _him_ if he were to show her genuine concern, so that’s not happening any time soon.

 _watch your aim_ , he texts her. It’s Dean-Meg code for _I’m fine_ and _Are you alright?_ and _I worry about you_ and _I get it_.

Neal’s a better liar and Lisa is much more trustworthy and Benny is far more loyal, but in spite of all that, Meg’s the one Dean would want at his side if it came down to it. [He understands her, they understand each other in ways the others don’t. They’re cut from the same cloth, have walked through the same hell, made the same damning choices.] It’s a moot point of course, if possible Dean wants his entire team with him. And they’ve never given him reason to doubt any of them.

[ _But if it came to that_ , the part of him that Dean’s done his best to keep buried in the last few years, the only reason he made it through the darkest period of his life alive, whispers. _If_.]

When Cas finally texts Dean back, it’s so unexpected, Dean accidentally drops the phone. Which is a very bad thing indeed, considering he’s stretched out horizontally on his couch, playing scrabble against Jo on his phone. Meaning that, when he lets it go, the phone hits him square in the face. Hard.

Groaning, Dean rubs at his upper lip and nose. That shit _hurt_.

At least, Cas’ message is a promising one.

 _And they don’t let you use the phone? That doesn’t sound legal_ , followed by _I’d be free tomorrow afternoon, 4ish?_

Dean grins.

_trust me, my employer’s all about legality_

_and tomorrow sounds great_

It does indeed. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and Jody’s already assured everyone that they won’t have to show up at the office until Monday morning.

 _Wonderful_ , Cas responds a few minutes later. _You’re paying_

Dean laughs. It’s an odd feeling, this giddiness, but he can’t help it.

_fair enough_

That leaves him with over twenty-four hours to panic about having a date. Wonderful indeed.

*

Despite the fact that Dean has absolutely zero chill by the time he arrives at the small, local coffee shop Cas has picked out, their second date goes well. It’s actually nice to be anxious about something that doesn’t involve dead or kidnapped kids for once. And there’s a special kick in meeting someone new because you want to get to know them, not because you’re trying to figure out if they’re your suspect. Dean’s forgotten how much he misses that.

[Meaning that Tessa is probably right: He really does need a life outside work.]

The jokes. The small talk. Making someone smile.[Cas has a beautiful smile, wide and brilliant and unashamed and none of these thoughts may ever be repeated out loud, Dean would never hear the end of it.] Learning all these new tidbits about someone else. [Cas doesn’t drink coffee in the afternoons, but is terribly affronted when Dean puts sugar into his because apparently the only acceptable way to drink coffee is black. He also loves the weird hipster music the radio’s playing, but Dean’s willing to forgive that because damn, Cas has an even drier sense of humor than Jody and he’s freaking _hilarious_.]

It’s— great.

Cas doesn’t ask too many questions about Dean’s week-long disappearance, which is a good thing because Dean doesn’t talk about his job. It’s a mood killer if there ever was one and he can’t handle the reactions people have to it. Sometimes, they’re weirded out by dating a fed. Sometimes — and those are the worst — they think it’s _cool_ and want to hear more about it.

Dean dumps those the second he’s payed the check.

They talk about music and cities they’ve been to and places they want to visit instead. Cas tells him about the beauty of St. Petersburg in January and how he once got lost chasing his brother through the streets of a small town in Tuscany. Dean recalls some of his fondest memories of San Francisco, where he lived with Charlie and the others for a while, and even shares a few of his better childhood memories from those early years, spent traveling all over the country. They argue about cars — Cas prefers public transport whenever possible, really, what is wrong with him? — and their favorite foods — Cas is convinced that nothing beats proper Italian cuisine, when clearly a proper burger is superior to anything — and it’s just all-around good.

Dean is convinced his lips should be aching from how much he’s smiling the whole time, but it’s just easy to do so when Cas is sitting across from him, half-way through recounting a prank he’s pulled on a friend, arms swinging wildly as he gesticulates.

It’s the way Cas looks at him almost constantly, never the first to break eye contact, that makes Dean feel flushed and nervous and excited all in one breath. It’s that small, self-satisfied smirk he wears every time he makes Dean laugh. It’s that exhilarating feeling of spending time with someone you like and having them like you back that Dean blames for blurting out, "I’d like to see you again," before insecurity and self-doubt can make him swallow the words back down.

And Dean would like the record to reflect that Cas’ response — which is to lean forward close enough that Dean can make out the tiny specks of grey in his bright, blue eyes, stare Dean straight in the eye and murmur in his gravelly voice that won’t ever not be sexy, "How about you continue seeing me now?" — totally doesn’t make him choke on the last of his coffee. It does _not_.

*

They have a classic date night at the movies four days later. Mostly because Dean’s still not entirely sure if Cas’ terrible taste is genuine or he’s just fucking with Dean and also because it’s been forever since Dean’s last gone to the movies.

Cas insists they should watch Charlie’s Angels. Dean’s seventy percent sure Cas picks it because he knows Dean dislikes Miley Cyrus and Kristen Stewartboth, but the joke’s on him: there’s nothing about hot women kicking ass that Dean finds in any way objectionable. The twist half-way through is also pretty nice, and some of the scenes remind Dean of Jo’s antics when she’s done pretending to be a normal, functional person. Granted, Jo doesn’t like guns, so maybe not all of them.

Cas also insists on not needing popcorn — a suspicious statement if there ever was one — and then proceeds to try and steal Deans. That almost ends in a war that gets them kicked out of the theater because Dean _doesn’t_ share his popcorn. There are lines, okay?

[They don’t have sex that night, but they do make out for half an hour in front of Cas’ apartment door and the next morning, Dean shows up to work wearing a wide smile that has Meg dropping her coffee cup and Benny slap his shoulder with a guffaw.]

*

Cas’ texting habits don’t get any easier to decipher with practice.

That’s one of the lessons Dean learns over the following weeks. It’s like no one’s ever taught the guy the proper meaning and usage of emojis, for one. Dean’s half-certain that most of the time Cas is either dead on his feet or hungover as hell and just randomly tapping his screen as a proof of life type of message. At least, there’s no reasonable explanation for why Cas would send him a long string of frog, DNA string, sun, city scape and heart emojis that Dean — and the combined powers of Charlie and Jo — has come up with so far.

That doesn’t keep Dean from practicing though. They practice a lot. Dean takes care to always take his personal phone to work, just in case they get called out again. It doesn’t happen for a while. They work a couple of cases, even a big one, but none that require them to jump states. Which is a good thing, Dean _hates_ flying.

It’s also a bad thing because it means they mostly spend their time doing paperwork and research, the old-fashioned way. Tracking people and money, answering calls, analyzing data. It’s interesting, and the coffee at their bureau is better than the crap they get when they’re out and about — they’ve got their own coffeemaker because the entire team agreed that a top-notch coffee maker was one of the bureau’s better investments and they’ve been proven right time and time again — but it’s not _interesting_ the way field work is.

Neal, for one, is bored out of his mind. Which is never a good thing for Jody’s peace of mind, so she’ll undoubtedly assign them another case soon, just to get him to shut up. But for now, Dean enjoys the calm, the routine of it all. It leaves him with a lot more time to chat and meet up with Cas, he’s not gonna complain about that now that he’s finally developing something like a social life.

Although Cas works pretty irregular times as well, a consultant for some big shot corporation, so that actually works in their favor. They both know what it’s like to have to drop everything in a second because their boss calls. Cas’ already had to cancel their plans last-minute twice. Dean would feel self-conscious about that, but it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to return the favor — and besides Cas is really good at making it up to him.

So while Cas’ texting habits remain a mystery and endless source of amusement for Dean, all in all, things are going well.

*

Five weeks into his acquaintance with Cas, Dean gets the call from Jody that he’s been waiting for: _Pack your bags, Winchester_. And. _This one’s gonna be ugly_.

Dean texts Cas on his way to the airport.

[They’d been planning to eat Italian that night, another doomed attempt of Cas’ to convert Dean, no doubt.]

Warns him not to expect any messages for a few days, that he doesn’t know how available he’ll be. Apologizes for the last minute cancellation.

Cas’ answer is short and to the point: _Take care, Dean_

With a comma and everything. It makes Dean smile and on his way to the fucking airport, that’s no small feat.

*

Thing is, there’s never really a good case. Not for Dean, not for his task force. A case always means that children are dying, children are disappearing, children are raped, children are sold, children are— There’s always bodies and bruises and hollowed eyes on too young faces.

It’s not something that gets easier. It’s not something you get used to.

[Some cases hit you harder than others, but they all pack one hell of a punch.]

This one is, for all intents and purposes, one of the better ones Dean’s worked on. They find three missing children locked in the cellar of one of the most unpleasant, creepiest imitations of a Stanford couple Dean’s ever had the displeasure of laying his eyes on. The kids are alive and mostly unharmed — they wouldn’t have been, but they made it in time, they weren’t too late — three boys, none older than twelve. They stick to Dean like glue until their parents arrive, and the youngest one doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand for a long moment even then.

[He’s got huge, brown eyes and dark, floppy hair and—]

They’ve caught the couple as well, and got enough proof for even the most incompetent prosecutor to put them away for a long time. All in all, it’s one of the best endings anyone could’ve hoped for.

[Dean comes home. He showers. He dresses. He calls a cab. He doesn’t remember the drive or the walk up to Cas’ door on the fourth floor, but he remembers the surprised look on Cas’ face. Remembers thinking that maybe he should’ve called. Remembers pulling Cas into a hug, clinging to him, the warm body that isn’t tiny, isn’t fragile, isn’t so easily broken. Breathes in the familiar scent of him, nothing childish about it, and some muscle drawn tight in his chest finally eases when Cas pulls him closer.

"Bad day," Dean murmurs into his shoulder. And, "sorry."

Cas hushes him. Ushers him inside. Keeps a hold on him as he leads him through the small apartment, like he thinks Dean might keel over if he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t mind.

At some point he’s lying in Cas’ bed, surrounded by warm blankets and Cas’ smell and Cas’ arm thrown over his chest.

"Sorry," Dean mutters, again and again, listens to Cas’ humming some song he doesn’t recognize and cries himself to sleep in Cas’ arms.

*

The next morning is perhaps the most embarrassing morning after Dean’s ever experienced in his life. Which, considering how he spent his twenty-first birthday is really saying something.

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t ask any questions. Not even the reasonable ones, like _Why did you show up on my doorstep as an emotional wreck?_ He makes Dean coffee and asks if he wants pancakes or scrambled eggs and doesn’t so much as flinches when Dean tells him honestly that he can’t eat anything without throwing up right now.

Insists Dean drink three glasses of orange juice and chatters about his week instead. Apparently, Cas has gotten into an argument with his brother about the meaning of the term 'professional conduct'. It’s not surprising, Cas has almost daily arguments with his brothers from what Dean’s picked up so far, and he gratefully lets himself be distracted by the dramatic retelling of their fight. No matter how ridiculous Cas makes it sound.

They end up on the sofa somehow, Cas’ arm a welcome weight over Dean’s shoulders, and watch reality TV until Cas reveals that he’s never seen Dr. Sexy. Naturally, Dean is obligated to remedy that and if they spend the entire afternoon with Dean giving Cas a necessary background in the who-slept-with-whom paradigm of Dr. Sexy’s hospital, well, he’ll consider it four hours of his life well-spent.

Cas probably doesn’t agree, but nobody asked him, the uncultured nutbag.

[When Dean returns home that evening, he feels more settled into his bones than he has in weeks, maybe months, and texting Cas’ _thank you_ the second he’s through the door won’t be enough to adequately convey how grateful he is, but it sure is a start.]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, Castiel was bound to notice that badge.

Dean doesn’t so much realize that he’s dating Cas, as he’s hit over the head with the truth of it three months into their unofficial relationship. Figuratively speaking because Jody frowns on physical abuse at the workplace.

Which means Dean’s less hit over the head and more walks cluelessly into the bureau on an ordinary Tuesday morning. Only to come face to face with the sight of his entire team wearing party hats and colorful little flags, the walls of their team room decorated with huge, glittery banners proclaiming in capital letters HAPPY THREE MONTH ANNIVERSARY TO YOUR LONGEST AND STABLEST NON-RELATIONSHIP EVER with a huge smiley face and everything.

Frankly, Dean would’ve preferred a hit. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s blushed so hard in front of these ridiculous people.

At least the celebratory pie is freaking delicious.

And he doesn’t even have to talk about Cas at all — not that he ever does, not that any of them ask, safe for Meg, who is unhealthily invested in Cas’ place on the Hotness Scale™ — because Jody wouldn’t tolerate that crap, so ten minutes into their impromptu celebration, they all get back to work.

[Their floor gets a lot of visitors that day and Neal, Meg and Dean amuse themselves by answering the curious questions about the banners by their colleagues with blank faces and expressionless "I’m not at liberty to talk about this," and "I have no idea what you’re talking about, now shoo, I’m trying to get some work done."

Honestly, how did people entertain themselves before they started to freak out the rookies?]

But although his team slips back into their usual level of professionalism — which, in all honesty, isn’t saying much — Dean’s attention continue to circle back to that stupid banner.

The thing is, it’s true. All of it. Cas and Dean have never had that discussion, never decided that they’re exclusive, but they’ve been seeing each other regularly for over three months now. Which is in fact the longest, most stable relationship Dean’s ever had. They don’t just meet up for sex either, sometimes they just hang out, argue about drinks or watch TV.

[Not movies, those always lead to arguments. But TV shows work fine, especially Dr. Sexy. Dean’s been contemplating inviting Cas to a group chat with Charlie and Jo for weeks now. The four of them watching the new episodes together would be fucking _biblical_.

On the other hand, Dean’s invested a lot of time and effort into keeping the various spheres of his life separate from each other. Introducing Cas to his friends would be crossing those lines, big time. Dean’s not sure they — or he for that matter — are ready for that step.

And it’s not like Cas has even hinted at Dean meeting his brothers, so Dean’s pretty confident he’s not the only one who thinks so. Well, that and Cas’ brothers’ sound crazy. As in utterly, batshit insane. It’s too bad, actually, Dean’s sure Gabe would get along with Charlie like a house on fire.

And he absolutely means that literally.]

There’s also that time Dean had a bad breakdown after That One Case and Cas took care of him. Didn’t even ask any questions, even the ones he had every right to ask. Still hasn’t. The only sign that Dean hasn’t imagined the whole thing is in how Cas now always texts him _Are you alright?_ as soon as Dean gets back from a case. Dean still hasn’t found a way to make that one up to Cas, but he will. He definitely will.

Just as soon as he’s done wondering [read: panicking] about whether or not he should do something special for their unofficial three month anniversary of not-exclusively-dating. _Fuck_. This is why Dean doesn’t do relationships: He fucking _sucks_ at them.

It’s just sheer, dumb luck that Cas doesn’t seem to agree with this widely-agreed upon assessment. Dean’s keeping his fingers crossed that it’ll stay that way.

*

That evening, Dean invites Cas over to his home.

It’s got nothing to do with his team’s stupid celebration and everything to do with him wanting to surprise Cas. He hasn’t taken those cooking lessons for nothing, alright, and even Lisa had to admit that he makes some mean cannelloni from scratch by the end of it. And so what if he specifically picked an Italian chef for those lessons? Dean already knows how to make burgers and steaks, he doesn’t need any help with those. There’s nothing wrong with expanding one’s horizon a bit, every once in a while.

And if the sight of their dinner makes Cas exchange his signature smirk for a genuine smile and his eyes light up like they’re lit with flames from the inside out, well, that’s just good fortune for all involved. Particularly the happily squishy feeling in Dean’s chest that wiggles about at the sight of it.

[The way Cas all but strolls over, pins Dean against the kitchen counter and kisses him breathless is also a nice side-effect. Very nice indeed.]

"Hello to you too," Dean rasps eventually, Cas still pressed tightly against him, which really is no bother at all. He can feel Cas’ grin against the side of his cheek when Cas kisses it softly, and really, if Cas wasn’t holding him close, Dean’s pretty sure he would be floating straight through the ceiling with how weightless he feels.

The evening only gets better from there. They eat — Dean hasn’t ruined a single thing, even though the alarm clock went off around the third minute of his make-out session with Cas —, they drink — Dean’s even got wine instead of his usual beer for the occasion, and if that’s not proof of just how much Cas means to him, nothing is — and they laugh.

[They don’t talk about their relationship because Cas doesn’t bring it up and Dean has no idea how to start this type of conversation, but does it really matter? They have a great time and Cas doesn’t even pretend to think about declining when Dean offers him to stay the night. What more could Dean ask for?]

*

In retrospect, Cas staying the night was always gonna blow up in Dean’s face.

Not literally, of course. And it’s probably not even as bad as Dean first thinks it is. Truth is, Dean hasn’t gone out of his way to hide his job in a while now. He doesn’t like to talk about it, sure, because there’s never much to say. But he’s answered all of Cas’ questions, told him about his recent argument with Meg and Lisa, complained about Neal’s impossible music choices.

He’s never come out and said "I work for the FBI" because even after four years at the bureau, Dean hasn’t figured out how to slide an admittance like that into casual conversation. Not that his job is usually a big deal. Or should be, for that matter.

It’s just—

Dean didn’t exactly grow up on what your average Joe would term 'the right side of the law'. Not like he killed puppies or got into shootouts with the cops or anything, but. There’s just something about admitting to where he works that makes Dean uncomfortable. And that’s before he gets to the details of his job. The ones that usually either creep other people out or whose reactions’ creep him out.

There’s also the part where a lot of people don’t really want an FBI agent for a boyfriend. For a variety of reasons.

And it’s not that Dean’s genuinely thought Cas would have a problem with his badge. Not after the first few dates — few people want to know those types of details about their one-night stand after all — it just hasn’t come up, is all.

So when he stumbles out of bed and walks half-asleep into the kitchen and towards the coffee maker at ass crack in the morning, Dean probably should’ve expected Cas to wait there for him, leaning against the dinner table, arms crossed in front of his chest, watching him.

Honestly, Dean doesn’t notice anything off about that. Cas always wakes up before him and Cas always likes to watch him. Dean’s grown used to that penetrating stare following him around, particularly when his head’s still hazy with sleep.

"Morning." Dean yawns. Hears his jaw crack. Opens his cupboard and blindly reaches for two cups.

"Good morning, Dean."

Dean blinks. Punches the little 'On' button on the coffee machine. Rewinds Cas' words. Frowns. Turns around to look at his not-boyfriend, really look at him.

Cas— doesn’t look pissed. Not exactly. But.

"What’s wrong?"

Cas shifts a little towards the left, the motion revealing— oh. Dean’s badge. And his gun. Whoops.

Dean sighs. There’s really not a whole lot to say or do, so he rubs the bridge of his nose, then proceeds to turn around and prepare himself a cup of coffee. No way, no how is he gonna have this conversation without caffeine in his blood.

"Oh. That."

Cas doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t move either. Dean’s used to that as well. Cas likes to process information before he acts on it, probably because it makes him feel more in control. Dean kinda envies that sort of self-control, he’d never be able to pull it off. And believe him, he’s tried.

In other words, there’s no reason Dean can’t gulp down half his coffee in one go before he faces the current situation. Maybe it’ll kick the last of his sleepiness out of his brain’s cells, though that might be too much to hope for.

"So. I may or may not be working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation," is how Dean eventually decides to bite the bullet and start the inevitable conversation.

"May or may not?" Cas raises two very judgmental eyebrows at him.

"Oh, fuck off." Dean scowls. "So what? Why does it matter?"

"It matters," Cas says slowly, delicately, "because you didn’t tell me and you should have."

And the thing is, Cas may have possibly a point, but the way he says it, the way he’s staring him down has Dean bristle and grit his teeth with the urge to push back, to fight.

"I _told_ you I travel a lot for work and that my boss is the most competent hard-ass I know," Dean snaps. "I _told_ you about my team, hell, you’re the one who suggested me and Neal should resolve our musical differences by listening to musicals — which was a terrible idea, by the way, because the only decent one he’s brought so far was _Mamma Mia_. I _told_ you the important things, the things that mattered to me!"

"Then why did you keep this from me? Why not come out and say it?" Cas doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a quiet intensity to him now that lets Dean know he’s not the only one getting pissed. Which is kinda nice, but also not gonna help anyone.

Dean takes a deep breath and forces himself to finish his coffee because if he doesn’t take a moment, he’s gonna start screaming and that won’t help anyone. "I’m sorry," he says when he comes up for air and meets Cas’ gaze unflinchingly. "I really am."

That’s what he should’ve started with, probably.

"I didn’t mean to hide it from you or— or lie to you or whatever it is you’re thinking. It’s got nothing to do with you, alright? It’s just— I _hate_ talking about my job." Dean doesn’t mean for it come out like that, but he can’t help it, can’t keep the words back or make light of them. He blinks, escapes Cas’ watching eyes for just a second before he opens them again. "I really, really hate it."

His voice is too soft, too shaky, too emotional. Dean can hear it crumbling the way his usual walls so often do around Cas, and he’d hate the guy for it if he didn’t usually like him so damn much.

"I’m not simply working as an agent," Dean forces himself to admit. Forces himself to not look away from Cas’ bright eyes, even though his own are starting to burn traitorously. "I’m part of a special task force that specializes in sexual crimes against children. Sex trade, too, but only when it involves minors. I— It’s—"

Dean swallows hard. Breathes through his nose in an attempt to calm himself down. "It’s _hard_ ," he admits, says out loud for the very first time what his entire team knows, understands, what Tessa has helped him acknowledge but never forced him to speak about. "The shit we see. There’s, there’s this saying at the bureau, you know? About how you can’t do that kind of job for long because it fucks you up more than drugs and weapons and murder ever do. We, my team, we’ve been doing it for four years now. And I hate it." Dean _laughs_ , brittle and tired. "And I love it. I do. It’s fucked as hell and every case carves you open like a fucking knife, but sometimes you’re some little kid’s last chance. Sometimes you get to save them or— or even just to bring them back, at least, and you feel like it matters. Like you made a difference after all, like you did something worthwhile with your life."

Dean stops. Forces himself to stop. He didn’t mean to say all that, didn’t mean to dump all this shit on Cas. Hell, he hasn’t even realized how much all of this has been building up in him lately. He rubs his eyes angrily because this isn’t the time for stupid tears and his stupid issues. That’s not what this is about and it’s not fair of him to make it about his fucked-up state when Cas has every right to be pissed about the way Dean’s gone about keeping him in the dark.

A warm hand closes around Dean’s fist, gently pulls it away from where he’s still rubbing at his eyes. Blinking his eyes open, Dean stares blankly at Cas, who’s placed his other hand on the side of Dean’s face and carefully wipes a stray tear away.

"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you," Dean murmurs because he wants, needs Cas to know that, but he doesn’t want to break the spell of the moment. Doesn’t want Cas to pull back, to step away from him. "I didn’t know how, without turning it into this." He waves a hand empathically, gratified to see Cas’ lips twitch.

"I apologize for overreacting," Cas returns, voice three notes deeper than before, eyes soft. "I’m not angry at you for any of this. You weren’t obliged to tell me the name of your employer and it shouldn’t have mattered whoever the hell it would turn out to be." Cas pauses, shakes his head sharply. "It _doesn’t_ matter. I suppose it bothered me more than I wanted to admit that you were holding back so much about your job. I half-expected you to work for the Mafia, with how careful you’ve always been about revealing anything of substance."

Dean snorts. Both because of the mental image of him working for some Corleone wannabe — and probably getting himself killed due to his inability to keep his mouth shut — and because Cas is the only person he knows who says stuffy shit like 'reveal anything of substance' unironically. As though reading his mind, Cas grins, quick and dirty, before his facial muscles seem to remember that they’re supposed to have a Serious Discussion here.

It makes it impossibly easier to look at him and say, "I’m sorry for all— that." Because Dean genuinely didn’t mean to blow up like he just did. Lately though, the cases have been harder to take. It’s getting closer to that time of the year and, as always, Dean feels the weight of it in his bones.

"I’m sorry as well, for pushing you like that," Cas clarifies when Dean tries to wave him off. "No, Dean, let me finish. I’ve been frustrated with everything you’ve been holding back and I’ve also been stressed for reasons that have nothing to do with you, but neither of which is an acceptable excuse for my behavior."

"You’ve been frustrated with me?" Dean blurts out. Why’s he even surprised by that? People Dean’s barely met are aggravated by him and Cas has done a hell of a lot more than that.

Cas stares at him for a very long moment before he pinches the bridge of his nose with a pained expression, muttering something under his breath that Dean doesn’t catch, but sure doesn’t sound flattering. "Yes, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make. Dean, will you please accept or decline my apology, rather than fixate on your imaginary fault for issues _you_ were unaware of because _I_ refused to talk to you about them?"

"But—"

" _Dean_."

" _Fine_." Dean snaps right back. "I accept your stupid apology. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Cas deadpans.

"Now what about—"

Cas kisses him then and Dean’s like 85 percent sure it’s just to shut him up. But Cas is a damn good kisser, so.

*

Later, they _do_ talk. If only because it would drive Dean certifiably insane if they didn’t. Cas must know that too because Dean isn’t even the one to bring it up first. And it’s honestly kind of nice to learn that he’s not the only insecure one in this not-quite-yet-a-relationship.

"You are more important to me than anyone’s been in a long time," Cas says and unlike Dean he’s got no trouble keeping eye-contact while saying shit like that. "Sometimes that scares me."

"Me too," Dean chokes out like the words are in any shape or form an adequate expression of the confusing maelstrom of emotions Cas evokes in him.

[They are not. But from the soft smile Dean has only seen Cas wear a handful of times — the one that softens the tense muscles around the corners of his eyes — it’s a pretty decent start.]

*

Dean still doesn’t talk much about his job. It’s one of his rules, an important distance he’s not willing to bridge. This, his relationship with Cas, his shipping wars with Charlie, his meme battles with Jo, is something Dean needs to keep separate from his job. For his own sanity more than anything else. So maybe he’s not quite as vague anymore, maybe it’s ' _heading out for another case_ ' instead of ' _surprise business trip, sorry_ ' but the difference is a negligible one.

At least that’s what Dean insists when teased by Charlie. Jo just sends eye-roll emojis all the time, but then Jo’s never has patience for Charlie’s or Dean’s romantic adventures. Unless one of them gets their heart broken. Jo’s very good at terrifying people. At least half the reason is probably that she’s five foot tall, blonde and just appears out of nowhere. Usually drops down from the ceiling, in fact.

Cas doesn’t ask more than Dean’s willing to divulge either. It’s mostly limited to ' _Bad case?_ ' when Dean ends up on his doorstep again after a really fucked-up case, probably looking as traumatized as the kid he pulled out from under that tiny bathroom cabinet underneath the sink. And turnabout is fair play: Cas remains rather close-lipped about his own job. Apparently, his job is alternating between impatient asshole boss and slightly more patient, more asshole-ish asshole boss. Which is actually one of the very few job-related troubles Dean can’t empathize with.

Jody is an awesome boss. She took one hell of a risk, putting their task force together the way she did and the only way she pulled it off was by standing behind her team members one hundred percent. Just the other day Jody blew off Winchester — who is most certainly not related to Dean, when will people stop making fucking assumptions about that — who’s got it in his head that Dean would make a great undercover agent for his team.

[Which, yeah. Of course Dean would make a great UC. He’s spent half his life on the wrong side of the law, he probably blends into seedy pub crowds better than to in those quarterly budget meetings, but that’s hardly the point. Dean’s not throwing away his team for anything, and certainly not for the unhealthily obsessive John Winchester. Then, there’s the fact that Winchester is Organized Crime, which is not at all a section Dean’s interested in.

The only reason he ever considered Jody’s offer was because it was SCAC — sexual crimes against children. That’s the cause Dean willingly joined the FBI for. It’s a cause he’s willing to die for, should it ever come to that. Unfortunately for Winchester, there’s not a lot of other causes like that. Not for Dean. _Not my fucking division_.]

In general, Dean doesn’t mind. He and Cas have plenty of things to talk about without involving their jobs. There really doesn’t seem to be a limit to Gabe’s ridiculous antics if even half of Cas’ stories are true and Dean really can’t doubt him, considering all the shit his own team gets up to.

Dean comes to regret not having pried a bit more out of Cas on a fairly calm Thursday. Jody’s given him half the day off because Dean’s collected too much overtime as it is, and it’s not like he’s needed for anything urgent or specific. Benny’s got another training rescheduled because his left hand still doesn’t function as well as it used to, even though he’s been sticking to his physiology exercises with a single-mindedness any religious fanatic would envy. Meg and Lisa are profiling some high-up son of a bitch in LA for internal PR purposes. [Their team has a wacky reputation. Dean has absolutely no idea why that is.]

It’s pretty quiet at the office with just Ash, Neal and occasionally Jody around. Which is why Dean only protested his morning off a little bit and is actually pretty happy to not be there yet. It’s nice to know he’s not missing anything vital. And he hasn’t had such a healthy sleep schedule in at least half a year. Tessa’s gonna be so proud of his progress at their end-of-month evaluation, that’s for sure.

She might be even prouder if Dean wasn’t currently contemplating getting drunk at ten thirty in the morning because his possibly-boyfriend has stood him up, but that’s another matter. One Dean’s less than inclined to discuss with her. Tessa likes to stress that her client confidentiality includes private matters as much as those related to the job, but. It’s exhausting enough to discuss his issues that are relevant to his job. Dean’s in no hurry to expand on their by now — finally — familiar territory.

It’s all a moot point anyways because Dean doesn’t get drunk. He doesn’t even pop open a beer. [He’s _not_ going there, okay, and certainly not for some guy, no matter how hot or funny or stupidly gorgeous.]

The shrill sound of the door bell cuts through Dean’s darkening thoughts before he’s settled on an appropriate reaction to Cas. No, not Cas. _Castiel_. Right now, Dean’s pissed and it’s definitely Castiel.

[Dean may or may not have sneaked a glance at Cas’ ID because eventually even he had to admit that it was ridiculous to date someone for two months and not know their first name. Sure, Dean could’ve just asked, but could he really? How would you even start a conversation like that?

So Dean took the easy, cowardly way out, sue him.]

"Cas," Dean greets as he pulls the door open. Swallows down the ' _Where the fuck have you been?_ ' he meant to ask when he catches sight of his— lover. Despite their crazy schedules, they’ve both done a good job of keeping each other updated so far. Which is why it hurt so damn much when Cas pulled a no-show last evening and didn’t answer any of Dean’s calls or texts.

[That Dean’s spent half the night lying awake on his bed, staring at nothing and imagining Cas dead in some ditch doesn’t even bear mentioning.]

"You look like shit," is what comes out of Dean’s mouth instead. He’d take the words back or apologize, if they weren’t the most diplomatic description that comes to mind.

Cas really does look like shit. His skin is waxy pale and there are dark shadows under his eyes, the kind Dean recognizes from the aftermath of cases gone wrong and the horror that clings to you long after the screams have faded. His eyes are glassy, like he’s about to start crying or not even really there, but no actual tears form. But the scariest part is the way Cas looks at him blankly, no recognition, no sign that he even realizes Dean’s there.

That emptiness sends a shudder of dread down Dean’s spine.

"Wanna come in?" he asks and holds the door open when it becomes clear that Cas won’t respond verbally. For a terrible long, drawn out minute, Cas doesn’t react at all. Just stands there, stares at some point over Dean’s right shoulder that must fascinate him, and doesn’t so much as twitch.

Dean’s just starting to seriously consider if he has the strength to lift Cas up and carry him bodily into his apartment without injuring his back — he’s fairly confident, but only if Cas doesn’t suddenly panic and tries to fight him off — when Cas walks through his door. And straight past Dean towards the living room.

Feeling an oncoming headache — or, possibly, a low-key panic attack — Dean locks his front door and follows Cas, who’s taken a seat on Dean’s old couch, the one he usually complains about. Apparently this move has used up all of Cas’ leftover energy because now he’s just sitting there, staring straight ahead. Still wearing his shoes and jacket too.

Dean. Well, to be honest, Dean’s hopelessly in over his head here.

After Dean’s — very embarrassing — meltdown, the two of them had a chat about such occurrences. Dean likes to think he’s handled the conversation like the mature grown-up everyone is convinced he isn’t. It helps that he’s got some practice — he’s talked to Charlie, Tessa, Lisa, Jo and Ash about these things, if in somewhat different ways. So Dean knows the kind of things he can share and the kind that are potential landmines he’s not gonna touch until someone forces his hand.

[It’ll probably be Tessa, that woman is ruthless.]

So Dean has done his best to explain to Cas what happened. Talked about how everything becomes too much sometimes [because pretty much every single case becomes too personal if he isn’t careful, it won’t ever not be, if he’s honest, Dean’s just gotten better at pretending otherwise over the years] and how it weighs him down. How when the world presses down on him [when he’s left behind, abandoned, alone], what he needs is to be warm — Dean’s almost never cold, but there’s just something about being wrapped up in layers of thick, soft fabric that calms him down — and not be on his own. Usually, he skypes with Charlie or Jo.

[Cuddling Cas is better, but Dean doesn’t say that. Outright.]

And Cas had been great. He’d been understanding and he’d asked questions, but it had been ' _Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?_ ' and ' _Is there something I should watch out for?_ ' instead of ' _What is it that bothers you so much?_ ' or ' _Have you thought about going to a psychologist?_ '. [Cas had managed not to make Dean feel like a freak, and that’s a rare gift indeed.]

Huh. Maybe that last part should’ve tipped Dean off though. Maybe the reason Cas reacted so well to that incident is because he’s familiar with them — or something close enough at least. Unlike Dean, who often starts crying and or babbling, — which is hands down the most humiliating part — Cas just sits there. Completely motionless. Staring at the wall.

And Dean? Has absolutely no clue what to do. Hey, regular visits to a shrink have in no way qualified him to figure out what’s going on in someone else’s head. He’s barely got his own one on straight half the time.

Great. Yet another boyfriend quality Dean sucks at. This is just turning out to be an all-around wonderful day.

 _Okay, enough with the self-pity_. _Get a fucking grip already_.

"Cas?" Dean decides to go with his tried and true _Just Fucking Ask_ policy. "You alright there, buddy?"

Dean’s pretty sure they’ve quite a few sex acts too many to count as 'buddies' now, but pet names have never been his thing. Or, well, that’s not quite true. Dean uses nicknames all the time, for everyone. But he doesn’t do those cutesy couple nicknames that Lisa always uses with her various partners. Dean’s more likely to join Meg in pretending to throw up behind Lisa’s back, as is only appropriate for a federal agent of his age.

Cas doesn’t answer. Not even a head shake, a nod, a fucking twitch. Naturally. Why make this anything less than as hard as possible?

With a soft sigh, Dean slowly approaches Cas, right in his line of sight. "Cas?"

Waves his hand up and down in front of Cas’ eyes. That gets him a slow blink and the beginnings of a frown, which is something, at least. It’s kinda embarrassing how much relief Dean feels at this simple sign that Cas isn’t completely unaware of the world around him.

"Cas, is it alright if I touch you?"

No reaction.

Dean contemplates his options. Decides to fuck it all.

"Cas, I’m gonna touch you now."

With exaggerated slowness, Dean lays a hand on Cas’ shoulder. Or rather tries to. Cas flinches back violently, causing Dean to step back on reflex.

"Okay, no touching. Got it."

And that begins what’s probably one of the worst mornings in Dean’s recent memory. Cas doesn’t talk, doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to be touched, and Dean _doesn’t know what to do_. He feels helpless and, worse, _useless_ because the only thing he can do is sit in the same room, place water and snacks within reach and talk to himself.

It’s maddening and terrifying and frustrating and exhausting.

At half past eleven, Dean calls Jody and takes the afternoon off as well. There’s no point, not like he could concentrate on work even if he went. And that’s a big 'if', Cas doesn’t give him the impression of someone who can be left alone right now.

When Dean runs out of things to say, he finally forces himself to pretend everything is fine and puts on a movie. Cas probably doesn’t notice — he doesn’t so much as turn his head — but at least it fills the quiet for a bit.

After spending a small eternity hovering around Cas, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that when Dean excuses himself for two minutes to use the loo, Cas has returned to his regular state of hyperawareness by the time he gets back.

"Dean?" Cas blinks rapidly and it’s just one word, not a big deal really, but Dean feels like all the air is pushed out of his lungs in a single moment. It’s a surprisingly good, if somewhat lightheaded feeling.

"Cas."

Sharp, blue eyes track his face, examine him more closely than Dean should be comfortable with but has grown used to in the past months. It’s a relief now, to be at the center of this intense focus again.

Cas must read that on his face, must see the tension and worry and the adrenaline-dropping relief because the next thing he says is, calm and sincere, "I’m sorry for worrying you, Dean."

And Dean does the only thing he can do. He laughs. [And if his hands tremble when he pulls Cas into a too-tight hug, neither of them mention it.]

*

They’re in Cas’ bed because it’s larger and twice as comfortable as Dean’s own — his mattress would be found guilty of physical assault in front of any court worth their law degrees, or so Cas insists — lingering in those sweet moments between sleep and wakefulness. Cas’ arm is a welcome weight over Dean’s chest and stomach, a reminder that Cas is really here, with him.

[Isn’t lost somewhere in his head, where Dean can’t reach him.]

Cas is quiet but awake, Dean can tell as much from his too light breath against the back of his neck, the way his arm shifts and tenses restlessly every few moments. He doesn’t mind. The silence that is. It’s one of Dean’s favorite things about Cas: The fact that he doesn’t feel the need to fill those silences, that they don’t make him twitchy and uncomfortable.

Soft lips against his neck startle Dean out of his way too emotional contemplations.

"Cas?"

There’s a murmur, almost less than a breath against his skin, like the words will somehow reverberate through Dean’s cells and tell him what Cas is saying. [They don’t.]

"What?"

Another kiss. Then.

"I’m afraid I am in love with you, Dean," Cas says with his deep, utterly calm voice, like he hasn’t just turned Dean’s entire world on its head with a simple sentence.

Dean doesn’t squeak and he most certainly doesn’t flail. That would be ridiculous. No, Dean’s a mature adult, he’s perfectly capable of locking that type of undignified response away to pull forth once he’s safely alone inside his apartment, thank you very much.

Wait a sec.

"You’re _afraid_?" Dean means to say it humorously, with a sarcastic edge maybe, but he’s pretty sure it comes out flat or even nervous instead. Damn his stupid self.

As if in response to that thought, Cas’ arm tightens around him, as though he’s worried Dean might slip away.

"A little," Cas continues and Dean will never stop being in awe of the ease with which Cas admits to these things. To his fears and insecurities. Like there’s nothing out of the ordinary with sharing them, like they’re just another part of himself that deserves to be acknowledged. Like they’re nothing to be afraid of at all. "And so should you be." Cas’ voice deepens then, and that’s, that’s so not fair. "I am not planning to leave you, Dean."

Despite himself, Dean feels his lips twitch into a grin. "That a threat?"

"It could be."

Dean’s grin widens because that response is just pure _Cas_. [Because that’s all he’s wanted to hear since he almost-but-chickened-out-in-the-end tried to ask Cas to be his boyfriend.]

"Bring it on, Cas," Dean says into the darkness and feels Cas’ smile against his skin.

*

["You care about this person?"

Castiel carefully studies his menu and wishes Gabriel was only half as oblivious as he pretends to be.

"Perhaps."

His expression, his inflection, everything remains unchanged, bland. Nevertheless, the look in Gabriel’s eyes sharpens. This is no surprise. One of Gabriel’s most bothersome characteristics is his ability to read them — all of them — better than any of them would like.

"You love them."

It’s a blunt statement. And though Castiel does not understand his brother as well as Gabriel understands him — maybe does not understand him at all — even he can tell that he’s caught his brother off-guard. Genuinely startled him.

"Perhaps."

Gabriel takes a sip of his drink. A cheap play for time and yet another indicator of how much he’s thrown by the topic of their conversation. A part of Castiel feels vague sympathy for his brother. After all— After all.

"Castiel." Gabriel rarely uses his full name, too alike to Dean in his love for odd and silly nicknames. Castiel should not find this particular habit of theirs endearing. He should not be thinking about Dean at all in the current situation.

Gabriel leans forward, braces his forearms on the table. His voice is low, serious the way Gabriel rarely is. "You know how this works. You know us angels only love once."

[From any other person, it would be a romanticized statement deigned to capture the rarity of an archangel falling in love. But Gabriel is not just any person. Gabriel is his superior more than he ever was his brother and even if he wasn’t, Castiel is old enough to remember when Lucifer fell.

 _Angels only love once_ , they like to say. _Because they learn from their mistakes,_ is what they mean.]

It is a warning. Perhaps the only warning his family is willing to give him. More than that, it is a threat.

"I am aware of our family’s adage, yes," Castiel states, unbothered by his brother’s tension.

Castiel does not take this admittance lightly, just as he does not take his growing relationship with Dean Winchester lightly. He has analyzed and evaluated the situation, weighted its consequences. Repeated his analysis with every new speck of information presented to him. Castiel does not take this step — or any step, really — without careful consideration and a few dozen plans and back-up plans.

" _Fuck_." Gabriel laughs. "This is gonna be a disaster."

Castiel thinks of the way Dean Winchester’s eyes light up when he passionately defends his favorite movie, food, music, place and even spot on a couch, — Dean is passionate about so many things, it’s one of the qualities Castiel admires the most about him. The way they shine brighter than the flames ever do, no matter how many times he tries to recreate that fire, and that failure should rattle him, frustrate him, but it _doesn’t_ and he smiles.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of stuff in this short story that only gets hinted at, not fully explored. Not the least of it is Dean's and Castiel's professional differences. This is by design. The story is the first part of a larger 'verse, as you may have already noticed. It explores the initial relationship between the two, how two people with very different backgrounds fell in love, no games, no hidden motives, just coincidence and attraction developing into something more. I wanted to take the time to explore this because this, my dear readers, is the foundation of Dean's and Cas' relationship and sets the stage for the entire 'verse.
> 
> If you are curious to see how they handle the consequences of this relationship once reality catches up with them, I'm planning a sequel called 'on the front line with a poem' that will focus on Dean's and Cas' deepening relationship amidst shifting alliances, unexpected outings to their respective bosses, family drama and the occasional explosion. I don't know when the next part will be posted though, so I ask you to be patient and keep an eye out. Or just follow the series ;) 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this fic. I would love it if you take the time to comment and let me know what you think of it. Beyond that I wish you all a wonderful weekend. Stay calm and healthy and I hope to see you again in the next installment!


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